


Rough

by draculard



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Inappropriate Use of Archery, Jealousy, Mild Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18009710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Arya has always been talented with a bow.





	Rough

Arya has always been talented with a bow. Her arrow flies straight and true; there’s a whistle in the air as it pierces Sansa’s thick skirt and thunks deep into the tree behind her, pinning her there. The village boy breaks away from her with a yelp, his lips still red and swollen. He’s gone in an instant, tripping over molehills in his haste to get away, sliding in the bed of fallen leaves. Sansa makes a high-pitched noise of distress; the arrow is high between her legs, almost touching her skin, still quivering from impact.

“ _Arya!_ ” Sansa cries, though she hasn’t seen her sister yet. She checks herself for wounds, fingers the new rip in her gown with a muttered curse. Arya steps out from the trees ten yards away, her eyebrows set low in a scowl.

“Who was he?” Arya demands.

“You could have _killed_ me,” Sansa says. She grabs the arrow with both hands and tries to yank it free, but it doesn’t budge.

“It wouldn’t have killed you,” Arya says, her voice measured. She watches Sansa struggle with a clinical disinterest. “It might have cut off your clit, though, if I aimed higher.”

Sansa freezes, her fingers wrapped around the arrow. The wood is smooth and cool; she raises her eyes to meet Arya’s, dark and cold, and feels a shiver go through her.

“Arya…” she says, struggling to shake off her uneasy feeling. “You — you shouldn’t play like that.”

“Who says I’m playing?” Arya unstrings her bow and sits down on the forest floor, her legs crossed. She’s wearing trousers again — Mother would disapprove, Sansa thinks, but at least Arya isn’t getting her skirts dirty. And the utter silliness of that thought irritates her, joining her simmering anger at Arya with the ease that comes with years of sibling rivalry.

“You’ve ripped my dress,” Sansa says, examining the collision of arrow, fabric, and wood between her legs. She lets her hand drop to her side with a smack, exasperation bleeding through. “Help me out of this.”

“No.”

“ _Arya_.”

Arya crosses her arms; the quiver strapped to her back jostles as she moves, the arrows inside rattling against each other. Overhead, the sun moves behind the clouds and with it goes what little heat the day held. Sansa suddenly feels underdressed; the neckline of her bodice dips down to her collarbones and the wind caresses her bare skin, raising goosebumps everywhere it touches.

“Who was he?” Arya says again. She’s fighting off a scowl, eyebrows twitching. “He’s a village boy, isn’t he?”

“So what if he is?” Sansa counters, pulling at the arrow again, to no avail. She feels calluses raising on her palm. “You play with the butcher’s son, don’t you?”

“You weren’t _playing_.” Arya’s face twists with disgust. “You were _kissing_. I saw you.”

Sansa barely stops herself from scoffing. Instead, she gives a haughty sniff, doing her best to imitate Mother when their guests show less-than-stellar table manners. “You shouldn’t be so vulgar,” she says, voice clipped. “Using words like—” She gestures, aware that she’s blushing and trying to stop it. God, if Arya can say _‘clit’_ without blushing, why can’t she? “—words like you used earlier,” Sansa finishes lamely. “Do you even know what that means?”

The corner of Arya’s mouth lifts in an amused sneer.

“Does your village boy?” she asks.

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. Her cheeks are uncomfortably warm, her chest exposed and cold. The village boy had been pleasant-looking enough, but his hands were rough, his kisses unexciting — he’d tasted unpleasantly of saliva, leaving Sansa with a feeling like she’d been drooled upon. How long had they been here, under the tree? Ten minutes, fifteen? The whole time she’d been desperately longing for the encounter to be over, but somehow unwilling to hurt his feelings by demanding he stop.

Would he know what to do, with his hand between her legs? Sansa doubts it. She bites her lip, intensely aware of Arya’s level gaze.

“Sansa,” Arya says. Her voice is soft but commanding; Sansa meets her sister’s eyes without thinking.

“What?” she says. For a long moment, Arya doesn’t respond. Her eyes bore into Sansa’s, and they’re completely blank, her expression unreadable.

Finally, Arya says, “Do you need me to remove the arrow?”

Sansa hesitates. The arrowhead has penetrated beyond the tree’s bark, deep into the trunk itself; she can’t budge it, and it’s possible Arya can’t either. It’s possible the only solution is to rip her skirt even further, to free herself from the arrow.

It’s cold, and she wants nothing more than to be free of this — free of the bark scratching at her back, the wind harsh against her ears, her neck, her collarbones. But the shaft of the arrow is mere centimeters away from her skin, and when she relaxes her posture, it creates a pleasant pressure between her legs, a feeling she recognizes and enjoys.

In the end, it’s a tough question to answer, but Sansa answers it.

“Yes.”

Arya doesn’t move. Her fingers are wrapped loosely around her bow. Her eyes flicker above Sansa’s head, to the rustling leaves, to the grey sky. The wind lifts strands of her dark hair so that they float around her face.

“Kiss me, then,” she says. “Kiss me and I’ll take the arrow away.”

Shaking, Sansa can only nod. Her sister climbs to her feet, leaving her bow in the dirt. Sansa’s fingers are trembling, her palms sweating, and she clenches her skirt in two big fistfuls, tries to hide her nervousness. Arya approaches and Sansa’s eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, her hair in disarray.

Arya stands on tiptoes. Her hands are dirty, but they’re gentle when they land on Sansa’s hips, holding her still. It’s a shock to suddenly be treated like this — a shock from anyone, but especially from rough little Arya — but Sansa doesn’t have time to process it. She’s melting, and then Arya’s lips are on hers — soft and warm and full, so unlike the village boy’s. Arya smells like the woods, like fire and earth and fallen leaves, and her lips taste like apples stolen from the courtyard. Sansa closes her eyes, and she can see her little sister jumping down from a tree with the forbidden fruit in her hands, leaping the fence before anyone catches her, agile and swift.

Kissing Arya is like nothing Sansa has experienced before.

And then one of Arya’s hands is between her legs, fingers wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, scarred knuckles brushing ever-so-softly against Sansa’s clit.

Arya pulls the arrow out without ever breaking the kiss.


End file.
